Part 45 (2/2)

Pa.s.sing by the window he looked in again. This time, however, Kircheisen was not standing before the sashes, but at the side, ensconced behind the curtain, he was spying Gotzkowsky through the window. As he saw him pa.s.sing by, pale of countenance, but erect and unbent, he felt involuntarily a feeling of remorse, and his conscience warned him of his unpaid debt toward the only man who came to his rescue. But he would not listen to his conscience, and with a dark frown he threw back his head with contempt.

”He is a bankrupt--I have nothing to do with him!” So saying, he retired to his study, and in obedience to a natural instinct, he opened his strong box, and refreshed himself with a look at the thousands which he had earned from Gotzkowsky as ”detective and informer.” And now his conscience no longer reproached him; the sight of the s.h.i.+ning money lulled it into a gentle slumber.

In the meanwhile Gotzkowsky continued his toilsome and humiliating journey. He met men who formerly bent humbly to the earth before him, yet who scarcely greeted him now. Others, again, as they pa.s.sed him, whispered, with a malicious smile, ”Bankrupt!” As he came to the corner of a street, he met the valiant editor of the _Vossian Gazette_, who was coming round from the other side. As they met, he jostled Gotzkowsky rather roughly, yet Mr. Kretschmer did not think it worth while to excuse himself, but pulling his hat over his face he walked on with a dark and scornful look. As Gotzkowsky pa.s.sed the houses, he could hear the windows rattle, and he knew that it was his former good friends, who were drawing back when they saw him coming, and who, after he had pa.s.sed, opened the windows again to look after him, to laugh at and mock him. It was an intellectual running of the gantlet, and Gotzkowsky's heart bled from the blows, and his feet were tired to death. What had he then done to burden himself with the cruelty and contumely of the world? Had he not been benevolent and kind, full of pity and humanity, obliging to every one? Had he not always shown himself ready to serve every one, and never requested nor desired services in return? Therein lay his fault and his crime.

He had been independent. He had never sought the favor of any man, but, trusting solely to himself, had always relied on his own strength. And now mankind wished to make him feel that he had mortified them by his self-sufficiency--for small natures never forgive one who dares to be independent of others, and finds his source of honor in himself. And this crime Gotzkowsky had been guilty of. What he was, he had made himself. He had owed nothing to protection, nothing to hypocrisy or flattery, eye-service, or cringing. Only by the strength and power of his own genius had he elevated himself above the world which he ruled.

And now that he was down, it was but natural that the world should fall upon him, tear him to pieces with its venomous fangs, to enjoy his torture, and joyfully to witness the lowering of pride and independence. Gotzkowsky arrived at the town-hall and slowly ascended the steps. How often had he gone this same road in answer to the pressing cry for help which the magistrate would utter in his distress! How often had he mounted those steps to give his advice, to lend his energy, his money, and his credit to these gentlemen of the Council!

This day the doors were not thrown open to him the beadle did not bow down to the earth before him, but proudly and with erect head stepped up to him and bade him wait in the antechamber until he had announced him to the a.s.sembled Council. He had to wait long, but finally the doors opened and he was admitted. There sat the aldermen and councillors, and the burgomaster, just as they had when, in their need and distress, they had appealed to Gotzkowsky for advice and a.s.sistance--just as they had when, in solemn session, they determined to present him with a silver laurel-wreath as an honorable testimonial.

Only the chief burgomaster was absent. Herr von Kircheisen was at home, enjoying the sight of the money he had won from Gotzkowsky. This day they did not receive him as a counsellor or friend, but more like a delinquent. No one rose to greet him--no one offered him a seat!

They knew that he came to ask for something. Why, then, should they be polite to him, as he was only a pet.i.tioner like all other poor people? In the mean time Gotzkowsky did not seem to be aware of the alteration. Smiling, and with a firm, proud step he walked to a chair and sat down.

After a pause the burgomaster asked him churlishly what his business was. He drew out a parcel of papers, and laying them on the table, said, ”I have brought my accounts.”

A panic seized the wors.h.i.+pful gentlemen of the Council, and they sat petrified in their seats.

”Your wors.h.i.+ps have forgotten my claims,” said Gotzkowsky quickly.

”However, that I can easily understand, as the accounts are somewhat old. It is now four years since I have had the honor of having the Council of Berlin as my debtor; since I thrice performed the perilous journey to Konigsberg and Warsaw in order to negotiate the war contribution in the name of the town. At that time, too, I was obliged, in the service of the Council, to take with me many valuable presents. I may enumerate among them the diamond-set staff for General von Fermore, and the snuff-box, with the portrait of the empress, surrounded by brilliants, which I delivered to the General Field-Marshal Count b.u.t.terlin, in the name of the magistracy and town of Berlin. But, gentlemen, you will find the accounts of all these things here.”

The gentlemen of the Council did not answer him; they seized upon the papers hastily, and turned them over, and looked into them with stern and sullen eyes. Not a word was said, and nothing was heard but the rustling of the papers, and the low muttering of one of the senators adding the numbers, and verifying the calculation. Gotzkowsky rose, and walked to the window. Raising his looks to heaven, his countenance expressed all the pain and bitterness to which his soul almost succ.u.mbed. Ah! he could have torn the papers out of the hand of this miserable, calculating, reckoning senator, and with pride and contempt have thrown them in his face. But he thought of his daughter, and the honor of his name. He had to wait it out, and bend his head in submission.

At last the burgomaster laid the papers aside, and turned scowlingly toward Gotzkowsky. The latter stepped up to the table with a smile, making a vow to himself that he would remain quiet and patient.

”Have you read them, gentlemen?” he asked.

”We have read them,” answered the burgomaster roughly, ”but the Council cannot admit that it owes you any thing.”

”No?” cried Gotzkowsky; and then, allowing himself to be overcome by a feeling of bitterness--”I believe you. Those in authority seldom take cognizance of what they owe, only what is owing to them.”

”Oh, yes, indeed,” said the first councillor with solemn dignity, ”we know very well that we owe you thanks for the great services you have rendered the town.”

Gotzkowsky broke out into a loud, ironical laugh. ”Do you remember that? I am glad that you have not forgotten it.”

”It is true,” continued the councillor, in a tone of conciliation, ”at the request of the magistracy you took charge of the affairs of the town. You travelled to St. Petersburg to see the empress; twice did you go to Warsaw to see General Fermore, and twice to Saxony to visit the king. You see the Council knows how much it is indebted to you.”

”And we are cheerfully willing to be grateful to you,” interrupted the burgomaster, ”and to serve you when and in what manner we can, but these debts we cannot acknowledge.”

Gotzkowsky looked at him in dismay, and a deep glow suffused his cheek. ”You refuse to pay them?” he asked, faintly.

”It pains us deeply that we cannot recognize these claims. You must abate somewhat from them if we are to pay them,” answered the burgomaster rudely.

”Do you dare to propose this to me?” cried Gotzkowsky, his eyes flas.h.i.+ng, his countenance burning with anger and indignation. ”Is this the way you insult the man to whom four years ago on this very spot you swore eternal grat.i.tude? In those days I sacrificed to you my repose, the sleep of my nights; for, when the town was threatened with danger and alarm, there was no Council, no authority in existence, for you were base cowards, and abjectly begged for my good offices. With tears did you entreat me to save you. I left my house, my family, my business, to serve you. At the risk of my life, in the depth of winter, I undertook these journeys. You did not consider that Russian bayonets threatened me, that I risked health and life. You thought only of yourselves. I have not put down in the account the sleepless nights, the trouble and anxiety, the privation and hards.h.i.+ps which I suffered. I do not ask any money or recompense for my services. I only ask that I may be paid back what I actually expended; and you have the a.s.surance to refuse it?”

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